After the massacre, he returned home.
Back then, he would lay in the center of the commune, shivering beside a half-lit pile of wood, too heavy with grief to bear entering his parents' old home let alone sleep in it. He had swayed, nauseated, after looting the houses of his late uncles and aunts and neighbors, every cent of shattered jars carefully collected and stowed away in his bag. Any clothing, all the bright colors of wraps and shawls dulled and fringed, that could stay on his hips piled in heaps on the porch.
Back then, discovering blood stains or broken windows would send him into a frenzy. The whole world would go red, and suddenly, he'd find himself staring at his reflection in the riverbed where he and Pairo used to bathe. The sight of his own blazing eyes were the only company he had: the only part of home that felt familiar.
On his last night at the village, Kurapika returned to the basin again. He cupped the cool water in his palms, and brought them to his face.
Some deserved to be chained to hell.
Nowadays, catching his red eyes in a passing mirror would send his heart to his oxfords. Those didn't belong there.
